


At Hand

by exactly13percent (superagentwolf)



Series: Something Wicked [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: AFTG 2k18 Winter Zine Chat-Inspired, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom!Andrew, It goes fantastically, M/M, Neil the Witch Slut, Sappy Sex, basically Kevin gives Andrew the suggestion to get laid by Neil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 19:19:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16435325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superagentwolf/pseuds/exactly13percent
Summary: “You should try it out.”“Try what out.”-There's not much at hand to use for summoning that Andrew is willing to use. He hates summoning.This? Best summons ever.





	At Hand

“You should try it out.”

“Try what out.”

Andrew stares down at the cloves on the work counter. He slams the flat edge of his blade down, hard. To his credit, Kevin doesn’t flinch.

A sigh. Long-suffering, as if _Andrew_ is the one that nearly fucked up a simple potion. “The service.”

Andrew slides the cloves into the tiny black cauldron. The stone is chilly beneath his fingers, but he prods it with a pale finger and it begins to warm. A little too fast, maybe. He reigns in the flicker of anger and concentrates on the spell.

Kevin’s been wandering around like a fool the past few days. As if the upcoming full moon weren’t bad enough.

It isn’t like Kevin. That’s a stupid thing to say and Andrew hates clichés almost as much as he hates the stupid look on Kevin’s face as he daydreams when he’s supposed to be sorting basil leaves. Andrew slaps his hand. “Pay attention.”

“I am,” Kevin complains. “Are you listening? If you just—”

“Don’t need it.” Andrew doesn’t snap, but he’s close.

He also doesn’t say _no._

It’s intriguing. Andrew hates that, but he can at least recognize that he is interested in what the hell has Kevin Day so worked up. Kevin does not get _worked up_. He does not insist about anything except his work, and this is not work.

Not in the least.

Andrew slams the cauldron onto a wood board and watches smoke rise. It’s too hot. Kevin waves dismissively at it and a tendril of ice curls around it—

— _curls,_ almost _lovingly_ , and Andrew can’t stand it anymore. Anything that makes Kevin’s magic go from focused to this needs to be inspected.

Andrew does not ask for the information, but he does rifle through Kevin’s spellbook before Kevin leaves. The little sigil tucked away in the front cover is easy enough to memorize.

Maybe it’s a bad idea. Andrew doesn’t care. It’s a Wednesday.

* * *

Andrew turns the paper over in his hand. He considers what it might need. Summoning is not his area of expertise.

In fact, Andrew avoids summoning at all costs. He usually sticks to the basic methods. Paper airplane, letter, text message. He prefers not to submit some of his blood or hair to a stranger. Or even not a stranger.

The easiest thing Andrew comes up with is shampoo. He blindly grabs the bottle from the bathroom, not bothering to turn the lights on. His eyes are still on the paper. He wonders if the summoning will work inside or if he needs to go outside, and then he decides he is thinking too much and he _does not fucking care_.

Andrew slaps his finger onto the paper and realizes about two seconds later that he did not grab the shampoo.

_Fuck._

About two seconds later, the paper glows and hums red-orange before dissolving in a blaze of unearthly blue flame. Then, there is a low hum.

 _Josten at your service_.

The voice echoes, but it’s not real—it’s more like a memory, or imagination, and Andrew can’t quite pin it down. Something about the voice is playful and Andrew’s fingers itch to curl, but he keeps his hands flat on the table. The message continues.

_I am on my way to you now. If you haven’t chosen your service yet, don’t worry. You have…three minutes…until my arrival. Light a candle for me, would you?_

The little pause between the time is interesting magic. Andrew would contemplate how Josten got it to work, but he’s more concerned with _what the fuck he just summoned._

Apparently, Kevin has been summoning a fucking incubus, or some other sort of demon, because there is no way the _services_ in the message are innocent. Not with the lilt to the recorded voice.

Andrew brings up one of his strongest salt candles. If it is a demon, it’s not getting through his door. He’ll be able to handle it better on the porch.

Three minutes. It feels more like two and then there are soft, thumping feet on the dry autumn grass outside. They don’t exactly sound like hooves, but Andrew isn’t going to take that chance. He waits at the door, watching the candle on the windowsill burn. It smells too strong and burns his nose, but it works. That’s all that matters.

There’s a soft cough and then a knock at the door.

Andrew waits. He expects something—an angry word, an inhuman noise, anything. Instead, he gets a repeated cough and insistent knock.

Finally, Andrew crosses the room to open the door.

He does not find what he expects.

Standing there is not a demon. It’s a witch. Andrew knows, because the redhead has his sigil on his _cheek_ , the little upside-down star dark against his golden skin. His wrinkled nose sports a septum piercing, the little horseshoe glinting in the light—and his ears are pierced too, Andrew realizes.

The stranger has black-rimmed eyes, some smeared mascara or eyeliner crumbling messily around their bright blue light. They take Andrew in curiously, flicking over him with careful appreciation.

“You called,” the stranger says. In person, his voice isn’t as tinny. It’s warm. Flickering, almost. Like a candle.

Andrew glances at the candle. The stranger follows his gaze, eyebrows raising, and then Andrew finds another piercing on the left eyebrow. Two little orbs, one above and one below.

Silence.

“Do you, uh—” the stranger coughs, one hand pressing to his pretty mouth. “Sorry. The candle.”

Andrew silently moves to extinguish it. The stranger is not a demon, at least.

He’s not sure if that’s good or not.

“I’m not a demon, you know,” he says, amused. His blue eyes are filled with dancing light. “Don’t worry, though. I’m not offended. It’s not the first time.”

“Not the first time.” Andrew nearly regrets opening his mouth. The strangers smiles a little, turning around Andrew’s tiny cabin.

The stranger’s shirt is see-through, Andrew realizes. Mostly. The black fabric is gauzy, and it moves with him as he paces, fluid and enticing.

“I’m Neil. What’s your name?”

He could answer. It might be stupid—still, it seems like Neil is safe. Or at least, not a demon. “Andrew.”

Neil’s pink mouth curves upward. When he opens his mouth this time, he turns around and Andrew can see him. See his face, with the stupid blue eyes and bright lips and flush on his cheekbones.

“Andrew,” Neil says, and there’s a tiny silver ball on his tongue and Andrew can’t not look. He looks and _looks_ and eventually, he opens his mouth.

“What are you?”

Neil laughs. It’s a chiming sound; interesting, rolling, bright. His face lights up and Andrew only wants to reach out—to feel it; to know if the warmth is real. If Neil is.

“I am here to help you.”

“That’s not an answer.” Andrew watches Neil lean back against the table, his hands spread on the wood. Neil wears silver rings that shine in the light. They hug his fingers perfectly. He has nice hands—

—and Andrew _is losing focus_.

Neil straightens, some of his joy dimming, not extinguished but dampened. “I _am_. That’s what I do. That’s why you called me. Right?”

Andrew does not know how to answer that. Now it’s not just him that’s uncertain; Neil is searching with apprehensive eyes, looking Andrew over as if Andrew is the one that is surreal and unusual. This is not going at all the way Andrew expected and so he pretends that it’s the whole truth; that it was all just his need to know that Kevin was not making a mistake, that it was curiosity. Anything but the entire truth.

“Yes.”

Neil’s smile wavers, but it strengthens a little, fuel fed to his fire. He shifts his weight on his arms and then his eyebrows raise, a startled look on his freckled face as he looks down at his right hand.

The sigil.

The paper is stuck to his fingers, probably because Andrew used fucking _lube_ to draw it.

Neil’s lips curve back into that secret smile and Andrew’s throat tightens, the width of a straw. He can hardly breathe, too tense, waiting. Neil raises his hand, his head tilted to the side like the cats that sit on the garden wall in the morning, and observes the sigil.

“I have to admit.” Neil wiggles his fingers and the movement looks too fluid—too much— “This is the most creative summoning yet.”

Andrew does his best to glare. Neil just pretends to smother his smile— _it doesn’t work_ —and flicks the paper off.

“So. What service would you like?”

This is a terrible idea.

Andrew looks out toward the garden. He thinks about Kevin and wonders what exactly is going on. Kevin does not let people _that_ close.

Neil gingerly steps around the table. “Why don’t we start with rules,” he suggests. “Anything I need to not do?”

“Don’t do anything I don’t ask you to,” Andrew says shortly. His hands flex. He feels—

—needs fire, just to burn away the shiver, to reduce all the nagging voices to ash. To do _something_.

“You know, I don’t charge for making the trip,” Neil says quietly. Andrew looks up to find him hanging by the table, those slim fingers brushing against furniture like he is playing an instrument. Like he can make music with just a touch. “You don’t have to—”

Maybe it’s his fingers. Or his stupid blue eyes that shouldn’t be warm. The piercings, the shirt, the little pleased curve of his smile. Andrew doesn’t fucking know.

What he does know is that he moves across the room and closes his hands over Neil’s wrists, holding them to the table as he leans in.

He means to wait—means to say something—but Neil inhales a pleased little _ah_ and then his lips are parting before Andrew has even met him halfway, the heat of his breath cloudy between them. Andrew can see the flush on Neil’s cheeks darken and he does not want to close his eyes; he wants to see Neil, all of him, the way he arches into Andrew’s touch but doesn’t fight the restraint.

Neil breathes Andrew in like smoke and somehow, his lips fit against Andrew’s like they’re the other half of his puzzle, warm and pliant and plush—and Andrew _needs_ , he needs so much it dizzies him worse than the candle smoking by the window.

Andrew stands between Neil’s legs and then Neil shifts, his leather pants creaking, and his thigh bumps into Andrew’s. Andrew can feel the hardness of muscle, lithe and inviting as Neil allows him closer. It is only a peripheral movement to Andrew, because he has already forgotten what the point was; he forgets with Neil’s tongue sliding into his mouth, intoxicated by the pleased little moans vibrating in Andrew’s mouth.

He should know now, Andrew thinks, and so he lets go of Neil’s hands and wanders along the body before him, exploring.

 _Fuck,_ Neil is pretty, his body long and lean and tight. Andrew digs his fingers into the curve of Neil’s ass and finds himself wondering how good it would look before him, laid out in the darkness of the bedroom.

They’re not going to make it that far, right now.

Somewhere in the middle of Andrew’s roving, Neil shifts and they brush against one another, the burning heat spiking in a sudden flare as Andrew gets a clear impression of the erection straining against Neil’s leather pants. Neil’s kiss breaks in a strangled cry, his cheek bumping against Andrew’s as he pulls back. His breath is hot and wet against Andrew’s skin.

Andrew thinks he should say something—give Neil a direction to turn—but Neil suddenly turns his head and he latches onto Andrew’s neck, his tongue pressing against the skin there like he wants to memorize the flavor. Andrew doesn’t anticipate the way he jerks, his hands digging harder into Neil, squeezing him and pulling him closer while Neil’s teeth work their way into leaving a mark.

The table is blessedly empty. Andrew isn’t sure he could have stopped long enough to clean it off. He doesn’t want to stop.

“Tell me,” Neil gasps. He is breathless when he moves away from Andrew’s neck, his pupils blown and mouth obscenely red. “Tell me what you want.”

Andrew doesn’t know what to say; doesn’t know how to say _you_ , or _anything, everything, all._ He can’t put words to the need. He hasn’t felt this need before. Neil’s hands are curled on the table, shaking, and Andrew suddenly very much wants them on his body. Wants more.

“You.” Andrew knows the danger when he says it; he knows how stupid this is. If it was a bad idea to start with, it’s gotten progressively worse, but Andrew does not want to stop. “You can touch. I—”

Neil leans forward and Andrew reflexively quiets. He doesn’t know why; doesn’t understand his own silence. His willingness to stop and meet Neil, thirsting for just one more taste.

Danger is relative, anyway. _Isn’t it?_

“I will take care of you,” Neil whispers. He brushes his nose against Andrew’s neck and the nuzzling should be annoying—should make Andrew sneer—but instead, all he can feel is the aftershock of the hickeys tingling on his skin. “I’m safe. You’re safe with me.”

Andrew doesn’t say anything but _fuck,_ he wants that to be true, _wants_ and _needs_ it more than he knows how to say. Even worse, he thinks he _believes_ it, because Neil sucks delicately at the corner of Andrew’s jaw and even that little touch has electricity pouring over his skin.

Neil’s hand slides across the table and Andrew knows what he is going for. Knows the _stupid bottle of lube_ that started this entire fucking fiasco is being snapped open, the plastic echoing sharply as Neil continues to worry at Andrew’s skin.

“Are you comfortable lying back, honey?” Neil’s voice is low in his ear and Andrew wants to hate the stupid pet name because they’ve known each other for maybe four goddamn minutes and Neil probably says it to everyone, but—

—but, Andrew _doesn’t fucking care,_ he wants Neil, _wants_ him, and he doesn’t need his internal monologue of bullshit excuses while he’s having the time of his goddamn life.

Andrew shifts until he feels the table behind him and then—then, Neil laughs that stupid bell-chime laugh and pulls his shirt off. And.

All Andrew sees is the wonderful, smooth curves of Neil’s chest and the dip of his belly button; the fucking _belly button piercing_ dangling there and the goddamn barbells in Neil’s nipples glinting wickedly in the dim light. The dangerous slant of Neil’s hipbones and the way his leather pants cling like they might as well be painted on.

Neil’s wrist snaps and then his shirt is on the table and Andrew _knows_ it’s magic because he shouldn’t feel so comfortable on age-old oak. Not that it matters. Neil defies all logic and reason; defies everything he should be. He should be quick and messy and just _okay_ , but he’s doing all these little things that Andrew can’t understand.

“Anyone treated you right lately?” Neil murmurs. He is sliding Andrew’s shirt up, pausing long enough between each touch like he’s waiting for a refusal. What a fucking joke. Like Andrew could refuse. Not after the fucking piercings and smiles and Neil saying _safe_.

Andrew tries not to growl. It’s har— _difficult_. “No one treats me right. They all bother the hell out of me.”

Neil laughs. Little chimes, huskier now, his hands sliding gently over Andrew’s chest. They feel so wide and warm; so delicate and poised. Andrew barely notices Neil undoing his pants or pulling them away, which is a feat, because they are tight jeans—albeit not as tight as Neil’s leather.

“That’s too bad,” Neil murmurs. He pauses and like a fool—like a romantic idiot—he presses a kiss to Andrew’s hip. “You deserve it. Do you want me to start?”

Oh. _Oh,_ because Neil has effectively undressed Andrew and is half-dressed himself, those blue eyes heavy-lidded as he takes in the sprawling form before him.

The only defense Andrew has against this—his last wall—is in his mocking, “I want you to stop talking.”

Neil chuckles. He is amused, and Andrew wants to smack his hand away just to spite him, but then Neil’s warm finger is pressing into him and Andrew momentarily loses the ability to form a coherent thought. There is a split-second response of worry and refusal and _don’t let anyone close_ and then Andrew forgets it, because Neil is kissing the crook of his knee, his free hand absently stroking Andrew’s leg.

Because Neil’s hand works slowly, his strokes languid as he stretches Andrew, one then two then three fingers sliding into him in the easiest push Andrew has ever felt.

 _Not supposed to be this close,_ but fuck that, honestly, _fuck it_ , Neil is _good_ and _right_ and _safe_.

“So pretty,” Neil murmurs. He is at it again with his teeth, bastard, drawing a hiss from Andrew as he makes another little mark on Andrew’s skin. “Are you feeling good, Andrew?”

He doesn’t want to answer. He’s still stubborn; still doesn’t want to give up or give in all the way, even when he has Neil’s fingers in his ass and his cock is rapidly hardening against his stomach. _God,_ he can’t imagine; can’t even think about what Neil touching him would do.

Neil leans forward a little, a twist of his fingers, and then Andrew is half-rising from the table, a _hah_ leaving his mouth as he fails to bite back everything he feels. Neil’s blue eyes pin him, soft but certain, and he says, “I need you to tell me, Andrew.”

The _no_ at the back of his head can go fuck itself, Andrew decides. Andrew is getting fucked.

“Yes.”

Neil smiles. He leans close, the sweetest brush of lips against Andrew’s, and then his hand moves faster. The sudden change in pace has Andrew growling, his hands clawing against Neil’s arms. He hates the thought of hurting, but Neil just hums in pleasure.

This is good, this is amazing, and then Neil has to go and outdo himself when he leans down and slides his tongue over the head of Andrew’s cock.

So much, it’s _so much_ and Andrew’s breath is hitching in his chest as he watches those pretty lips close on the painful red mess of his dick. Andrew is close; he feels too close, Neil’s fingers spreading him and Neil’s mouth on him, Neil _everywhere_ —

—and Andrew only just manages to gasp, “Wait.”

Neil pulls back, and it is a testament to his restraint—to _safe_ —that he is gone in an instant, the hands and the mouth and the warmth disappearing. Andrew grunts in annoyance at that, because he didn’t want Neil _gone_ , but he is also appreciative of the effort.

“That’s not what I said,” Andrew finally manages. “I said I wanted—”

Again, the little pretty curve of Neil’s lips. He is flushed, Andrew realizes, his gaze probably as hazy as Andrew’s looks. He is wrecked, and Andrew suddenly remembers that Neil is probably just as wound up but worse, because Andrew has been lying on the table and enjoying life while Neil has been doing all the work.

Andrew feels a little disappointed in himself, but he also isn’t sure what to do about that, so he files it away and watches Neil lick his fingers like the monster that he is. Neil smiles, not making an effort to disguise the popping of his fingers in his mouth. “Sorry. I got carried away. You’re lovely, you know that?”

That’s a big fucking lie, Andrew wants to say, he is not lovely with his forgetfulness and laying there uselessly while Neil works magic. Not as lovely as Neil with his stupid freckled face and the high blush that dusts him like rose petals.

“I don’t need your words,” Andrew mutters. “I—”

“You need me?” Neil leans closer, his question a bare whisper.

This is one question Andrew does not want to answer. Not now.

So instead, he flicks Neil’s pants open and mutters, “I want you.”

Neil bites at his neck again and Andrew barely gets the pants off before Neil is pulling Andrew closer, careful hands on his thighs, the slide of the shirt Andrew is laying on helping move him. This—

— _this._

Andrew thinks his breathing might hitch again because Neil pauses, his hand sliding along Andrew’s thigh. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

It came easier, this time.

Neil smiles and leans over; Andrew thinks the stupid man is going to kiss him, but then he feels the pressure of Neil’s cock against him and then the _push_ , the feeling of _tightness_ and _heat_ coming all at once. Andrew holds himself up on his elbows because he still needs to see, even if he is safe; more so because Neil’s eyelids flutter and his lashes are fanned over his cheeks, red-brown hair silky as it falls over his face.

 _God,_ he was right, it’s so much, all feeling and pleasure and a thousand nerve endings flaring to life and pulsing through his body. Andrew only holds himself down with his hands on Neil’s arms, taking in each slow inch as Neil slides forward. They meet, no space between them, and Andrew thinks his panting breath could never be enough to fill his lungs with Neil.

“Perfect,” Neil breathes. He is saying stupid things and then his hand is on Andrew, stroking him assuredly, as if they have done this dozens of times. As if he knows every inch of Andrew’s body and how to make him _feel_.

He does. Andrew doesn’t know how; he just knows Neil makes him feel. Makes all the world dissipate until they are the only things left, sweating bodies and shaking limbs.

“Move,” Andrew says, thinks it might be a command but he’s not sure, and then he doesn’t think because Neil is pulling back out.

Neil’s moans are goddamn porn star-worthy and Andrew wants to hate that, wants to imagine it’s a farce, but Neil bites his lip and the little stud on his tongue gleams like a secret when his mouth falls open in pleasure. “Oh— _good,_ Andrew, so good—”

“Fuck.” It’s choked; Andrew chokes on it, because he can’t just make things easy, but _it comes out_ and that _matters_. The little word matters, and it matters when he pants, his hands digging into Neil’s arms with every rock of Neil’s hips. “Faster.”

“Mmmn,” Neil mumbles, _he won’t shut up_ , and Andrew doesn’t know what to do with all his words and noises and colors. “ _Ah_ —Andrew—”

Andrew can’t stop looking at the way Neil’s chest heaves, up and down, his collarbone gleaming and his eyebrows knit together stupidly. He is so _stupid_ and _unreal,_ and Andrew digs into his arms harder just to make sure he’s real—

—even if Neil fucking him harder should make that obvious, because Andrew can hear the slap of their skin hitting, the distant sting of contact and the _very_ certain way that Neil cants his hips and manages to hit what Andrew fucking _knows_ is his prostrate.

“Fuck,” Andrew growls, most of what he thought was control already gone. “Neil—fuck—”

Neil’s moaning does things Andrew can’t handle; the sound catching halfway an _ah_ and an _oh_ ; it’s obscene and dirty and completely unreserved and Andrew _loves_ it. He _loves it_ and he loves how messy Neil is with his tangled hair and desperate cries, “Andrew, _fuck_ , _Andrew_ —”

Andrew just digs in and then it hits in a burst, fire and color and Neil’s teary blue eyes staring down at him while Andrew comes all over Neil’s hand, a vacant gasp torn from his lips. Andrew can feel every pulse of Neil’s dick, knows his ass clenches so tight for Neil and then Neil is coming, his shaky cry punctuated by the heat that fills Andrew.

It takes a while for Andrew to come back to reality—to hearing the panting of Neil’s breath in his ear, feel the cool sweat between their bodies, judge the sticky mess he doesn’t want to care about yet.

Finally, Andrew opens his mouth, but instead of _good_ or _safe_ or _yes_ , what comes out is, “You’re heavy.”

Neil laughs. Wind chimes, Andrew decides, rolling and unplanned and sometimes close to dissonant. Messy. Neil is messy but Andrew—

—he thinks he likes it.

“Sorry.” Neil smiles and pulls himself upright, lazy. Andrew feels the coolness of Neil’s piercings rolling against his body. “Let’s clean you up.”

“I’m not a child.” Andrew wants to be offended, but Neil just chuckles and leans in.

 _Cheater._ Not that Andrew minds the kiss, or the way Neil’s tongue slides against his mouth. He just waits there, tired and spent, while Neil disappears only to apparate a second later with a towel.

“Okay?” Neil asks, while he is finishing cleaning them off.

Andrew stares. _Okay._ As if he could explain in words what just happened.

“Okay is not enough.”

 _Fuck,_ he says it, but he doesn’t give a shit. Not now.

And when Neil smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners and the blue shining like gemstones, Andrew finds that not giving a shit feels very nice, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> ...i blame the 2k18 aftg zine chat for this


End file.
